Matinee

you're not revealing all you feel

perhaps the epic novels made you think

the radio chats and things like that, little dramas

and glossy magazines, with their lipstick bright advice

on how to make home still sugar spice nice 

despite the rising price or cost, we'll call it:

the cost of living and forgiving and then forgiving again

or star struck columns whimsy filled

or ingenue models striking a pose

in front of Tiffany's who knows what it was

old vintage recipes twice baked to please

that made you declare in so many words beyond the Pale

imagining yourself on a sweeping staircase

a la Bette Davis

I too have felt many things;the grand spectacle of it all

the grand mal...

and played to the hilt my noble, self sacrificial role

though not officially, not in a floor length stole

and dripping with jewels...

but then the enforcing scorner rolls up his sleeves

intent on your unease

and all that you've pretended to get by 

falls by the wayside when he lets fly

like chandeliers shattered

on the high note;

like a nightmare's cake when the oven door's smote

or the moment suspended like a teardrop diamond fell  

all in the dish clothed, butter dished morning or at the grimy sill

looking out on the milk bottle dawn

to the hills from whence Help comes

and withal your impearled imagination

quelled: and gone,

smashed to hell well

in a cheerful apron

over a floral dress to whom should you confess

or give your last address

while the tear ducts swelled God knows

and there was no matinee musical score

no je vous adore lifting you above the lilied clouds

to soften the blows.

mary angela douglas 24 january 2022;26 january 2022